


Half Empty, Half Full

by Azira



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Erotic Dish Usage, Mental Health Issues, Non-Explicit Sex, Nonbinary Courier, Other, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17937881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azira/pseuds/Azira
Summary: Courier Six is very fond of robots--more than they are of humans, frankly. And when they meet a robot in need, they can't help but feel compelled to lend a hand, however they can.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is something I wrote ages ago, intending for it to go on further, but my plans for it kinda dissolved. I still think there's enough here to read and enjoy, though, and it's a rare character appreciation piece, so here it is. If even one person's fancy is tickled, I'll feel like I contributed something to the world!
> 
> CW for mild ableist language, canon and canon-typical.

It was funny, the way you could end up changing for the sake of someone else without even meaning to, Courier Six thought as they shone their Pip-Boy light around the ransacked remains of a diner. Not light on their feet but not very strong, either, they usually tried to keep their pack light, and only scavenged lightweight items like paper goods, but these days they found themselves toting around as much ceramic as they could lift. Coffee mugs were not, generally speaking, good salvage, being quite awkward to pack and of little value, yet here they were actively seeking them out instead of electrical components or cartons of cigarettes.

At least they were easy to find in quantity. A few chipped mugs lay scattered on the counter and floor, but in the cabinets behind the counter were shelves of them, plain white, identical, and barely shifted since the diner’s demise sometime around the Great War. Six set their rucksack on the floor and began packing the mugs into it, wrapping each one in a scrap of fabric before lining it up next to its kin in the most space-efficient way possible. It was a good find, not only because of the number but the condition as well. Out of over forty cups, only one was missing its handle, and the rest had only the most minor of chips, if any. No character to any of them, but in the end it wasn’t for them to judge. It was the recipient’s opinion that really mattered, and he would doubtless like them just as much as any of the more colorful mugs they’d brought him in the past.

When there was no longer any room left in the sturdy leather bag, Six pulled the Transportalponder from a side pocket and hoisted the pack. Outside, they fired the device and felt their stomach drop out as the odd sensation of teleportation overcame them, familiar but still nauseating. They clenched their eyes shut, and when they opened them, they were at the doors of the Sink, their second home, alive with the chatter of personality modules. They carefully set down their bag of spoils and looked up to see Muggy hurrying into the room on his single wheel. “You’re back! Got any mugs for me?”

Six smiled. “Of course. I always do.”

  

Six had taken to the Sink immediately. Despite the anxiety shaking their knees and the confusion wracking their disturbingly Tesla-coil-filled skull, conversing with an artificial intelligence amidst ambiguous flashing lights and the steady hum of a processor put them in their element. The Central Intelligence Unit was personable enough and answered all their questions readily, and even if being called “sir” to their face felt a bit strange, if that was the only form of address the CIU had access to then they could certainly get used to it.

Now, the thought of a whole suite full of artificial personalities…that intrigued them. They would have to be sure to gather all of the holotapes as they explored outside. They wondered what they might be like, as they walked around the rooms and noted all the accoutrements.

They came to a stop in the bedroom. They had spent rather a long time talking to the Think Tank upstairs, and their surgical wounds were beginning to ache fiercely, so they could justify taking a bit of a rest now. But as they approached the bed, they noticed in the far corner what looked like a miniature Securitron, standing inert and powerless. As they climbed under the covers, they wondered what sort of personality it might turn out to have. An ever-present protector, like Victor? Or maybe a helpful cohort, like Yes Man? For all their current brainlessness, Six’s mind whirled through increasingly silly possibilities as they drifted off to sleep.

  

The holotape slid home and the Central Intelligence Unit whirred as it began to read the personality programming there. Somewhere behind Six, another mechanical sound gradually became audible. They peered into the room to see what had activated and saw the tiny Securitron’s bright screen, just as the little bot in question caught sight of them in turn and gestured wildly.

“You! Hey, you! Yeah, you! Got any mugs?”

Six blinked at the Securitron. The question caught them more than a little off-guard. “Uh, no, I don’t have any on me,” they finally responded after a few moments of silent confusion.

“Of course you don’t! Why would you? You’re not an insane robot obsessed with coffee cups. To you they’re just worthless junk!” The robot spoke and gesticulated with a sort of passion not normally reserved for dishes.

“Why do you want mugs?” they asked cautiously, unsure of just what this little robot’s self-described “insanity” entailed. They’d had enough of the aggressive behavior of the Toaster, and weren’t particularly keen on another, more mobile module yelling threats at them at all hours.

“Why do _you_ want mugs, huh?” the Securitron shot back. “You some kind of sick mug hoarder? Oh god, give me the coffee cup, please! It’s sitting there in your pack, taunting me! …I’m sorry. I got a little carried away. It’s just all those goddamn dirty dishes out there with no one to clean them! It breaks my heart!”

Six glanced back at their pack self-consciously, as if it had materialized a mug without them noticing. “You seem, uh, pretty obsessed with mugs.”

“Of course I’m obsessed.” Six could hear the eye roll in the Securitron’s voice. “They made me this way! You think I don’t _know_ how crazy I sound? Of course I do! They programmed me to know that too! They made me just to torture me! But you know, it’s the neglect that hurts the most. ‘Hey, everybody, let’s turn ourselves into robot brains in jars.’ Do you know how many coffee cups giant robot brains in jars use on a daily basis? _Not fucking many!_ ”

Six took a moment to recover from the surprise of its last outburst. “Well, what do you do with the mugs?”

“I’m supposed to keep them clean—oh god, the thought of all those dirty dishes out there makes me crazy! Most of them are probably beyond saving now. The only thing left is to break them down and process them for raw materials. I guess you could have those.”

“Thanks, I guess. Can you…do anything else?”

“Anything else, they ask! Like I don’t long for the chance to be more than a neurotic busboy. If you must know, at one point Dr. Mobius programmed me to manufacture electronic components in my central chassis. That module got corroded when the Toaster spilled hot crumbs down my vents, though. If you find a back-up somewhere, I could maybe do that for you.”

“Excellent.” They nodded, thinking of how easy it would be to maintain their supply of energy weapon ammo with that added capability. Their appreciation of the robot increased exponentially. Wandering over to the bed for a seat, they asked, “So, who are you? Tell me about yourself.”

“You…you really want to know about…me? No one ever asks about Muggy! You’ve made me so happy! So, maybe you’ve seen some of those big, imposing Securitrons with their lovely laser guns and rocket launchers and scary faces? I’m not one of those.”

“I’d noticed,” Six murmured, but Muggy carried on.

“Dr. 0 was always jealous of House Industries, and he thought it would be fucking hilarious to build a tiny neurotic Securitron. Big fucking laugh. …So! Um, you got any coffee cups for me now?”

Six frowned. “So he really did create you with the intent of making you miserable? That’s…that’s _awful_.”

 There was a pause during which Muggy might have blinked, had he been a human. “That’s…the first time anyone’s ever said that to me. Showed sympathy, I mean. It’s not mugs, but I still appreciate it.”

“Of course I’m sympathetic!” Six felt the familiar old rage bubbling up in them again. “Just because you’re made of metal doesn’t mean you don’t have thoughts and feelings! That’s the whole point of artificial intelligence! You’d think it’d kill people to treat their fellow sentient beings with any sort of respect, though. It’s—” They stopped abruptly and took a slow, deep breath. “I care about robots, yes. And—I know what it’s like—to have crazy ‘programmed’ into you. I’m going to talk to 0 right now. And I’ll bring you some mugs.”

Muggy visibly brightened at that last sentence and rolled around in a small, happy circle. “You’d do that for me? You don’t know how _long_ it’s been since I saw a mug! I’m happy enough with the coffee cup, you don’t even need to talk to Dr. 0—I doubt you’ll get very far with the old bastard anyway.”

Six was already striding towards the Sink doors. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I carry a lot of very nasty, very scientific guns. They tend to get the job done.”

Muggy babbled encouragingly behind them while Six shifted the pistol at their hip and the rifle at their back. It was time to kick some Think Tank ass…and hopefully bring back some cups.

 

Six didn’t have the heart to return to Muggy right away. Instead they prowled the crater until they could no longer go without a rest and restock, being sure to grab every coffee mug they spied along the way. They’d amassed quite a few by the time they headed back to the Sink, and they hoped they would soften the blow somewhat.

0 had been less than receptive to their pleas. Apparently his hatred of House and all things created by him ran deep, and remained fresh despite the passage of time. Any number of guns were, sadly, not very threatening to the Think Tank, wrapped up as they were in their pacifism-inducing field. And even when Six put on all their charm, which admittedly wasn’t much even once they’d popped a pack of Mentats, chugged some of Cass’s special whiskey until they felt smooth as butter, and donned their best suit, all they got from him was more substantial bad news.

“Muggy’s neurosis isn’t a ‘part’ of it. It’s not a single chunk of programming in a system. Muggy isn’t an artificial intelligence—I thought I explained this to you before. The Sink personality modules are all just that: simulated personalities. There’s nothing going on under there but utilitarian processes.”

“So in other words, Muggy _is_ a mug-obsessed robot. That’s _all_ he is,” Six said with a feeling of dread.

“Basically, yes. It’s also a dishwashing machine, and, if you can repair the functionality of it, a small assembly machine for electronic components. It doesn’t think. It only acts like it does. If you remove the main aspects of the personality module, i.e. the obsession, well, you might as well just turn off the whole module. I suppose it might keep talking, but it wouldn’t say much other than basic operation requests and commands. I don’t know why you’re so concerned about it in the first place, but I’ve seen—and heard—you talking to Dr. Dala over there, so my guess is that you’ve got the same sort of misguided affection for robots as she does for lobotomites. And I don’t want to think about _that_ any more deeply.” Six flushed. “Look, kid, my advice is to forget about it. Muggy’s not a person; it’s a joke. Turn off the module if it’s bothering you so much.”

A different kind of heat filled Six’s face then, and they whirled and stomped out of the Think Tank without saying anything more. Outside the chamber, no longer artificially pacified, they pulled their laser pistol from their side and shot four full clips into the metal door, shouting curses over the din of flying energy and pinging metal. They then holstered the pistol with more force than necessary, kicked the door with a steel-covered toe, and, instead of turning to enter the Sink, headed out the door directly to the crater. They needed to distract themselves, and what better way than fighting for their life against horrifying mutant abominations?

And now they stood on the balcony outside the Sink doors with their pack weighing heavy on their shoulders and the bad news weighing heavy on their heart. They entered slowly. The Central Intelligence Unit was the first to greet them with a cordial welcome and offer of services. The Auto-Doc was silent, presumably sleeping, though thankfully not snoring. In the residential suite, two angry female voices stopped their back-and-forth with a few lingering grumbles. And rolling around the side of the Central Intelligence Unit was Muggy, who came up to within a few feet of them and looked up hopefully.

“You were gone a long time—Did you bring me any mugs?” he asked immediately.

Six sighed, but smiled a little despite themselves. “In fact I did. Here.” They swung their pack off their shoulders and began unloading the collected dishware. Muggy immediately snatched up the first cup they produced and made an excited keening noise.

“You did! You brought me mugs! I’m so happy I could kill myself!”

“All right, all right, settle down.” They pushed more mugs towards him to keep him off that unexpectedly morbid line of thinking. Six was not eager to reveal the fact that there was nothing they could do to fix his programming, and the remainder of his existence would be shadowed by it. Unforgivable, that someone would intentionally afflict another being with that kind of suffering. Seeing him now, though, picking up mug after mug and practically giggling with glee, they thought that maybe they could slip the information in while he was in a good mood to soften its effects. “Hey, Muggy…” He made a noise of acknowledgement but didn’t pause in pawing the coffee cups. “I talked to Dr. 0. He says the neurosis programming is core to your personality module—There’s nothing I can do to change it without destroying pretty much the whole thing. In other words, I can’t fix you.”

Muggy stilled and looked in the general direction of their face (it was hard to tell when his face was a stationary image). “I guess I was sort of expecting that. Dr. 0 is just that kind of asshole. But…thanks for asking. For caring enough to ask. And thanks for the mugs!”

Muggy’s voice had been so quiet and thoughtful there that Six was taken by surprise. When all his reactions were so over-the-top, something that sounded so genuine and _calm_ was…something special. Then, of course, he was back to messing about with the mugs, inspecting them, rearranging them, talking affectionately to them. They much preferred this desperate happiness to his earlier desperate anger and frustration.

Watching him preoccupied and gleeful, chuckling to themselves, Six felt a sort of soft warmth grow inside them. They couldn’t “cure” Muggy, but they could make him happy. And Six had a _need_ to make people happy, to feel useful and helpful and maybe a little bit wanted. Collecting mugs was hardly difficult, and making deliveries was something they had experience in. They could give Muggy a lot of happiness.

And maybe it was kind of adorable when he started singing to them.


	2. Chapter 2

Another day of scouring the crater, a fresh batch of bruises, burns, and scrapes. A nightstalker had gotten one of its fangs into Six’s forearm and though they’d gotten most of the venom out the area had swelled alarmingly. They’d run out of microfusion cells entirely and only had half a clip of energy cells left by the time they got back to the Sink. They needed a session in the Auto-Doc and a good long rest. First, though, they had a delivery to make.

“Muggy?” Six called over the din of welcoming voices that heralded their arrival in the Sink. “Got more mugs for you.”

Muggy rushed in from the agricultural room and spun excitedly in front of them while they unloaded their pack. “Here you go, buddy. And some fusion cells would be great.”

“Coming right up,” Muggy chirped as he dug into the bag for mugs without waiting for Six to retrieve them. “Everything from last time is clean and ready to use,” he added.

“Thanks,” they said as they left Muggy to it and headed for the fridge in the ag room. Mugs were stacked neatly in a small crate next to it, and they took one from the crate and a bottle of sarsaparilla from the fridge. It still seemed very silly to them as they popped the cap off and poured the beverage into the mug, but it wasn’t for their sake that they used the dishware at every opportunity. Muggy didn’t just need to have mugs around; he needed to clean them, and unfortunately even though Six was not a robot brain in a jar, they hadn’t the faintest idea where to even get coffee in this day and age. So they drank water, soda, and booze from them, cooked beans and InstaMash in them, and once tried making some soup on the hot plate but failed miserably (on the bright side, it had dirtied quite a few dishes along with a third of the ag room floor; the sink still had not forgiven them, however).

“Seems like you’re always bringing Muggy some new toys.” Six glanced around at the biological research station, whose voice poured from the machine and directly into their spine (or lack thereof). “It’s been so _long_ since you came around here with any fresh seed for me, baby.”

“Um, yeah. I think I found all the packets at the garden. Sorry, if I had any more you’d be the first to know.” They shuffled backward out the door, clutching their sarsaparilla tightly. The biological research station made them uneasy. Fisto was one thing, but a machine actively coming onto them… It sent blood rushing places other than their head, where it was most needed for survival. It gave them a little too much shameful, embarrassing _hope_.

“Here are those cells you asked for,” Muggy piped up behind them, stopping them just in time to avoid tripping over him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some mugs to attend to.” Six gathered up the proffered microfusion cells and dropped them in their now mug-less bag, which they then carried to the bedroom with them. “And don’t forget to give me that when you’re done!” he called after them.

Like a little metal housekeeper, Six thought as they unwound bit by bit. Off with the armor, finish the drink, pop into the Auto-Doc to get those lacerations taken care of. Then they could flip off both light switches (if only one was on the other would complain incessantly) and curl up in bed for some much-needed rest. As they lay in the darkness with their joints slowly creaking back into place, they listened to the clinks and clunks of Muggy going through the latest haul, the quiet whir of his motors as he moved about, and the occasional burst of muttering or singing. Belatedly they noticed they’d left the empty mug on the bedside table instead of handing it off, but as if he sensed the mug’s location Muggy quietly wheeled in and took it.

“At least you didn’t leave it where I couldn’t reach,” he grumbled.

Six smiled at his retreating back. “G’night, Muggy.”

For all its lack of their friends from the Mojave, the Sink felt more like home than any place they’d been before.

 

Things had begun, as they often do, with an excess of alcohol.

Six perched on the end of their bed sipping from a mug of vodka and soda and feeling pleasantly giddy. A radio they’d toted in from the Mojave played songs they knew by heart and which Blind Diode Jefferson crooned along to from the other room. Muggy was rearranging the latest influx of coffee cups in various locations about the Sink; Six knew better than to try to figure out his organization system. Mugs could be found in quantity in every room of the Sink now, some in crates, some lined up on shelves Six had started bringing in to accommodate their growing numbers, some simply huddled in groups on the floor. Kitschy souvenir mugs, the colorful prizes of his collection, proudly lined the most prominent surfaces, organized by color and tourist attraction they advertised.

Six looked up over the rim of their mug to see Muggy looking at them expectantly. “I’m not done,” they said, tilting the cup back and forth to show the slosh of drink inside. Muggy sighed long-sufferingly and rolled about a bit, looking exasperated despite his permanently cheerful face. Six stifled a laugh and took another swig. “It bothers you just to know there’s a single mug in this place that isn’t clean, doesn’t it?”

“I clean mugs, it’s what I do. It’s basically _all_ I do. Not that I don’t appreciate you messing them up for me, but I don’t get any release until I can get them clean.”

Six waggled the mug again. “So I’m keeping you in anticipation, am I? Hmm.” They sipped their drink and reflected on that. They knew interacting with mugs, particularly cleaning them, tripped Muggy’s reward protocols. If they compared it to a human analog, it was like getting a hit of an addicting substance…or sexual pleasure. Would the analogy hold if the source of the reward process was withheld in the subject’s vicinity? The experiment that sprang to mind was hardly scientifically sound, but the alcohol—and the fuzzy heat it filled their body with—overrode any such concerns.

Lifting the cup clear out of Muggy’s reach, Six rolled their wrist lazily, letting the liquid splash over the edge. The robot’s reaction was instantaneous, consisting of a huff and a groan. With a growing smirk, they brought the mug to their mouth and lapped at the soiled sides, leaving it dirtier than before. They weren’t at all careful with the mug’s tilt, letting it drip soda and booze all over as soon as they’d licked it away from the opposite side.

“Oh come on, you’re making a mess, just—just give me the mug, please…” Muggy held out a pincer-like hand in supplication, but Six shook their head. If the tone of his voice was any indication, this was exactly the response they’d hoped for. He sounded frustrated, exasperated—and oddly pleased. After all, the dirtier the mug got, the more there would be to clean.

There wasn’t much drink left to spill, so Six got up and moved to the desk, Muggy hot on their heels. Setting the mug down, they went for another bottle of sarsaparilla and cracked it open with practiced ease, then angled it over the cup…and held it, liquid inside barely touching the edge of the bottle’s mouth. Muggy rocked back and forth on his wheel, transfixed by the sight. Then in one smooth motion they tipped it and spilled half the bottle not only into the mug but onto it, covering the surface in what promised to be a sticky mess in a few minutes. The sound Muggy made could only be described as a whine, and he seemed to vibrate with impatience as they slowly lifted the mug and carried it across the hall to the sink (module turned off to keep conflicts with Muggy to a minimum) before finally letting him have it. The little bot snatched the cup with a cry of unbridled glee and set about washing it so vigorously he nearly broke it, babbling a mixture of thanks directed at Six and mumbling to himself and, it would seem, the mug.

Six stood back and watched him fondly, not minding the mess on their hands for now. When finally he turned to them, clean coffee cup in hand and vents blasting to dry it, they cocked their head.

“So, was it good for you?”

The Securitron sighed happily, cradling the mug to his chassis. “ _God_ yes! I want to throttle you for doing that to me but, wow, the _payoff_ …”

The question had been intended as a joke, but Muggy’s overwhelmingly affirmative response set Six’s mind to working. After cleaning up, they laid back on the bed, listening to the radio and occasional personality module chatter, and watched the glow of Muggy’s screen weave back and forth throughout the Sink. They still felt quite warm, and they were so tickled at what they’d managed to accomplish and how Muggy had beamed up at them afterward… Rolling halfway over, they rummaged in the nightstand for an energy cell, fiddled with the wiring a bit until it began to buzz, and huddled down beneath the covers. The light switches would be teasing them about this tomorrow, but they had needs, dammit.

And maybe it was the vodka letting their imagination run away with them, but maybe, just maybe, this was something they could work with…


End file.
